remember, when...

(The bulk of this was originally handwritten—in green ink—during the long combi ride home last Sunday).

I just did something I swore I wasn't going to do.

But, there I was, digging in my pack. Excavating in search of my pen like a wild person.

Just after I’d completed a previous dig for my lip balm. I’d unloaded half the damn pack the first time, too.

People always do that.

The frantic, urgent search for something, because in a moment you’ll forget it and it won’t be vital anymore.

I've changed my mind about what I said in Otjiwarongo.

I've friends there, situated in a five room flat, who play host to a never-ending, revolving intake of guests. Because they’re good hosts—and it’s fun to keep track—they have a log-book. Each page has a simple form: Name | Random question | Follow-up question/comments | Dates of Visit.

They humor me, and twice I've pushed for a new line of inquiry/random questions regardless if the last page isn't quite full..

This last time, the random question, and the follow-up were, “What would you do in Nam that you wouldn't do in the states?” With the follow-up question, “What would you do in the US, you wouldn't in Nam?”

This was prompted by the realization that the act I’d been currently engaged in was far from polite behavior. What would I do in Namibia and not in the States, you ask?

I was picking at my nose. At a table. With other people present.

Would I do this in the states? Probably—but not so blatantly.

That I realized my behavior was atrocious table manners—and then vocalized it—brought on a conversation amongst ourselves of other strange, and previously dormant or slight habits that have popped into the noticeable realm since we've been living here. Things considered acceptable in our current culture.

The second follow-up question was scribbled in over what was previously the “other comments” section, when I realized former's inadequacy, and that the line of thought needed to be completed.

What would most of us never do in Nam that we would back home? The general consensus of the women ringing the table? Date. We followed this unanimity with our own personal horrors stories… Even those fresh to the country (two months in service) had a wealth of tales to tell.

And since we’d all come to consensus, we needed to come up with our own response on the log. Mine? Enjoying bar culture/drinking in public.

I don’t enjoy partying in clubs crowded to stupid proportions in Chicago, to be fair… But in Namibia, the shebeen culture here is one mostly rooted in binge drinking. There are exceptions to that rule, and for that I’d like to belatedly rescind my log-book statement.

When you don’t know the proprietor, it’s easy to have an opinion on someone else’s set up. A faceless entity is easier to criticize. And, though even though the set-up is often one of ramshackle nature, there are, again, exceptions.

Around payday—it’s hard to see around the village binge-drinking culture, what with the throbbing amps pouring Afro-pop into our village lanes, and ranch hands stumbling in and out the doors—still in their blue work overalls, 'KCR' emblazoned on their backs. Some are propped up on crates—leaning against the walls made of mud from softened termite mounds. Others, still, are asleep in the shade in the street out front of the bars in the center of the village, while more pass in and out of the doors exchanging unopened bottles of warm beer for cold, or looking for friends, conversation, gossip, or a decent fight.

All that said. On any given day, in the middle of the month—when the money has run out, and there isn't a steady stream of customers roving from bar to bar—one might find scenes more familiar to what one could find in the states.

Whereas the image at home might be of persons tuned into one of the multitude of sports channels flickering at the front of the bar.. Or of two old cronies on a park bench playing chess or checkers with the board between them—here we have 'bao.' Played by teams or in solitary face-offs, the [male] old-timers of the village hunker down in the shade and wait semi-patiently for their time at the board, watching the game as closely as one might follow a professional sports game. Focused concentration with bursts of verbal abuse, or praise, for an ill-considered, or a clever move, respectively. They've got big bottles of beer at their feet, and they’re steadily drinking, sure—but their main focus is the game.

Another reason I want to rescind my assertion? They’re sitting right in front of me in the combi. Two of my colleagues have a shebeen. One that I frequent about once a month. We play pool, I make my other colleagues buy me beer, we braai chicken.

Whereas in a larger town (one that shall not be mentioned), people are more likely to sidle up and try to run their fingers through my hair… Or, alternatively, smash bottles against the posts in the streets and start brawls—and, in this case you get either locked out of the bar in the cross-fire of flying glass – or you are locked in with those too drunk to care to witness the insanity... Or they’ll just stand and stare at me, because what the hell is this pale woman doing in this bar in the rukanda?  

In my own village, where people know me, I've got less to worry about... I can hang out and few people bat an eye at my presence. And really, I’m not fond enough of bar culture in the states to make such a statement (excepting the now-closed Bluebird wine bar... moment of silence, please).

But, back to the original general consensus on what we women—in particular—would do in the States, but not Nam. Date.

Namibia—Southern Africa in general—is a culture stuck in a lock-step of antiquated ideas of gender that have no legitimate place our evolving world. Will this change in our lifetime? Probably, towards the end of it… Now, though, we’re struggling. People (usually men) will frequently say, “It’s our culture.” To which I tend to respond, “Bullshit. It’s your sexism.” Probably not an appropriate PCV response, but damn, if you ask a learner to sweep up a mess he’s just made, and he tries to refuse because it’s a “woman’s” job to wield the broom... Well, you want to forget that corporal punishment is illegal and cuff them on the side of the head for their stupidity.

Men are coddled in this part of the continent (probably other areas of it too, but I’m not living there, so I can’t speak from experience). They have it pretty good. Sure, they’ll be called in for manual labor from time to time, but the bulk of the menial work is done by their mothers, their aunties, their sisters, and their daughters. Boys and men take it as a foregone conclusion that women and girls are here to serve their needs. They feel they have the right to the upper hand domestically, socially, and—ultimately—economically.

What happens when a women holds a job in a field that is traditionally held by men? I live in a country of over two million. We have countless male truck drivers. Hundreds. Thousands. As of December 2014, there were four female truck drivers that operate out of Walvis Bay. I've never been there, to Walvis Bay. How do I know there are four females currently behind the wheel—and that one drives an American-style cab that has the steering on the left instead of the right? Because people talk about it. All the time. People who've never met them know their names. It’s an ‘exceptional’ thing for a woman to have a ‘man's’ job here. And, being on the road is a mobile workplace, it’s visible. Even female police officers shake their heads in surprise.

With that mentality in mind… You think you've seen something in a Hollaback NYC video? Friends, take a gander at gender relations down this side. Whistling, stalking, shouting, harassing, whining, begging, snapping, honking, groping, serenading. Whatever it takes to get the attention of a woman pointedly ignoring you, because here, as they say—“No means maybe” (and they wonder why rape, assault and domestic abuse are such problems). A woman may be half a block away, and they’ll start hounding her. How such behavior has produced results, I’ll never know, but half of the population in this country is under 18... So, all I can say is either the women here are either far more forgiving to the pathetic way men behave… Or they just don’t know any better. (More's the pity).

While this is a solid reason not to date the bulk of Namibian men (this includes Afrikaaners/Boers as their behavior is no different than native Namibians), my reasoning to the dating bit was along a different line of thought.

Dating an ex-pat living abroad is an equally frustrating experience. You think when travelling abroad you’d meet independent, adventurous souls open to change, right? Sometimes, occasionally, sure..

More likely? They’re less independent, and more self-involved than they first appear. And adventurous? Open to change and experiencing culture? At the initial glance, yes. And why not, they're experiencing other cultures, and stepping outside of their comfort zone.. Unfortunately, many get to a point where they break. They want home. They want their normal. They get angry and frustrated at little things. They’re monstrous to be around.

There are exceptions, but let’s talk briefly about the dominant ex-pat profiles:

Foreign aid-worker: They’re often fresh out of college, a retiree, or if not, on a specialized career path with certain short-term and long-term goals. Dependent on their integration, there may not be a great deal of wiggle room for a changing perspective. (Maybe when they've had more life experience?) And if they've left their sweetheart/girlfriend/wife behind, only to engage in a fling overseas, they prove their lack of worth/staying power right off the bat...

Perpetual travelers: There is a large variety of these, dependent on age, experience, mode of travel and personal wealth, but I’m speaking to both extremes of the spectrum. The wealthier ones, who flit from place to place with a massive chunk of id, and a blindness to their surroundings… and the ones on a shoestring budget, who tend to mix a bit better in their surroundings.. At times it seems as though they'd prefer the landscape without the inhabitants.

Permanent Ex-pats: Often in a hotelier or tourist driven line of work, they tend to surround themselves with other 'western' compatriots. A bit of home, abroad; sometimes this isolation of themselves from the culture they're living in can turn a bit nasty.. In the form of racist diatribes they assure you 'aren't racist, they've just lived here long enough to know...' 

As to exceptions. Yes, they exist. They've either fallen in love with the culture they lived in, or with a host country national, and found a way, together, to make it work.

The bulk? They’re headed home. They’re dabbling. They’re tourists.

It’s hard to date here. It's hard to date abroad. Southern Africans, and ‘fellow westerners,’ alike.

And bar culture? Forget everything I said. I’m headed off to the shebeen, shortly.

We’ve got a braai on tonight.

The view from behind Feb's Sport Bar Shebeen | the Kavango Cattle Ranch, Namibia

the teats.

It’s absurd how political a playground can be. Hierarchical social groups and cliques. Leaders and followers. Nerds, geeks, jocks, loners, bitches, troublemakers, ditzes, gossips. The labels that are assigned by adults and children, alike, which are then perpetuated and regurgitated thoughtlessly, and endlessly for all time.

The basketball courts for one group, the kickball diamond another. The swings, the see-saw. They were all reserved turfs. They would shift from time to time, but they always remained reserved. You needed to belong to a group to achieve access.

In my younger years, I was a bit of a loner. It wasn't that I didn't desire to have friends, but I found them inconstant, and prone to participation in the societal dance for acceptance and approval, a cotillion for which I had never catered to, nor been invited to participate.

I was an attractive, pale, skinny blonde girl with light hazel eyes, rocking a pair of pink plastic glasses. I have a lovely singing voice. I was the kid you sit next to during quizzes or exams. Physically, I developed early—around the sixth grade.

I was picked on and bullied consistently.
People I’d never met perpetuated rumors about me. People I’d rarely interacted with created them.  

It wasn't always so bad, but I found one has to develop a thick shell. It backfires on occasion. That thick shell gets heavy, and you can come to resent it from time to time. That you would be required to wear it in the first place. Why should you have to shoulder the arrogance of confidence as a protective shield?

But then you develop actual confidence. And then you’re derided for that, too.

When I was younger, I was considered too pale. I was asked on a weekly, sometimes daily basis if I was albino. Often by people who knew better, but were trying to get a laugh. Albinism is a genetic disorder in which a person has partial or complete loss of pigmentation (coloring) of the skin, eyes and hair. I do not happen to be albino.

As an aside, people who are born with albinism often face ostracism, and occasionally, violence, from their community. I can’t say I've dealt with even a fraction of the issues someone who lives with such a disorder faces. But I wasn't left untouched.

I was told constantly that I needed to get out in the sun. Go get a healthy tan. You’re too pale, don’t you ever go outside?

This was during the first waves of the tanning bed craze. The early nineties, when people were overcooking in beds. Turning your skin orange was fashionable. (There seems to have been a recent resurgence in popularity).

And for a minute, I tried in vain to tan. My sisters have the right skin for it. They could achieve a ‘healthy’ tan. I turn lobster red. Insanity would have been repeating the same process and expecting different results. I learned my lesson. I burn. I gave up on the hopes of ever achieving a so-called ‘healthy glow.’

People have never shut the hell up about it.

For ‘white’ people, I’m just too white.

When you’re ‘too’ anything in our culture, it gets brought up constantly.

As a child, I was frequently apprised of being:

Too pale

Too white

Too ghostly

Too smart

Too intelligent

Too opinionated

Too insubordinate to elders (I’m from Indiana. Some of my fellow hicks deserve a healthy dose of irreverence for the insane things that they say).

Too loud

Too precocious

Too political

Too outspoken

Too talkative

Too vulgar

Too literal

Too subversive

Too plain        

Too pretty (?!)

Too self-aware

Too stupid to know I was supposed to be attracting boys (a specific confrontation with a bitch named Jessica in the sixth(!) grade in regard to my haphazard ponytail… how I wish I’d had made a comeback then to such absurdity)..

Too confident
Too active
Too reckless

Too much of a show off (for enjoying singing, and being quite good at it)

Too much of a know it all

Too direct

Too honest

Too assertive

Too stuck in my own imagination

Too happy

Too energetic

Too enthusiastic

Too comfortable with my own body

Aren't most of the things above, good things?

Is it people’s insecurities that make them so at the ready to stifle others?

The last on the list triggered this current rant.

I am comfortable with my body.

I like it. Whether I'm 85 kg or 65 kg, I’m an attractive and shapely woman.

I don’t really work out, and since I was once a dancer for a decade and a half, my body still keeps a decent shape. (It doesn't hurt I walk several kilometres a day through deep sand, though).

I’ll admit my shoulders are a little broad, but, they help me heft things during stints of manual labor, so I really can’t complain too much.

All in all, I like me. And I don’t feel an apology is in order for not being self-conscious about the way I look.

I have average sized breasts. Not big, not little. They’re just there.

I do not wear, and have never regularly worn, brassieres.

Since I started to develop at age 11, I rarely felt the need to wear a bra.

In athletics, and while dancing.. Sure. Wrap ‘em up and strap ‘em down.

But daily life? I never saw the point.

To me, brassieres feel uncomfortable (yes, even when sized correctly) and I just didn't understand why, for so many people, my breasts were a major concern for them..

My father asserted on multiple occasions that my lack of bra was indecent.

My camp counselor complained, and tried garner support from other counselors to institute an underwear dress code policy (she was an idiot, and didn't realize she was flirting with a lawsuit, quite obviously).

Other females in my peer group would call me variations of slut, whore, and prostitute.

Strangers (usually women) would come up to me, berate me, and ask me why I wasn't wearing a bra.

This was all before I was 14 years old.

People consistently tried to make me feel uncomfortable about my own body, and my choice to not wear a miniature strait-jacket to reshape and artificially lift my breasts.

I've always wondered why it’s such a hot topic.
And why people think they have the right to discuss my breasts outright in conversation, as if they don't belong to me at all.

What is wrong with the natural shape of my breasts?

Who deemed it a requirement to hold them up in uniform half circle cups, just so?

There aren't any adverse medical side effects from not wearing one...

And in fact, a study completed within the past decade highlights that constant artificial support can actually make the muscles fibrous, and cause the sagging effect that so many women seem to fear.

Boobs. Boobies. Tits. Teats. Breasts. Jugs. Cans. Racks.

They’re just sacs of fat hanging around in the event I choose to have kids and decide to offer them up for feeding.

Breasts are constantly sexualized, and they’re something of which heterosexual males are so fond… Sure, they’re soft and squishy, and nice to get a handful of, but while breasts can be an erogenous zone… So is the inside of my elbow, my wrist, my neck. Skin in general—an organ—not a sexual organ, but certainly relevant in the general enjoyments of sex. We want to be touched. Enjoying sex does not make you a slut. And whether a woman is wearing a bra or not is not a litmus test as to how soon she’ll be primed for mating. 

Women who do not wear bras simply do not wear bras.

I live, now, in southern Africa.

Many, many, women here do not bother with a bra. Its just another layer of clothing in this absurd heat. Female PCVs often talk about how they're adjusting to Namibian women being so comfortable with their bodies. Males bring it up too, but not in the same way. They've been introduced to un-self-conscious breast-feeding, which doesn't happen often in ‘Western’ culture.

Because I’m an American, and therefore one of ‘them’ I get a lot of flack in regard to my unbound breasts. A lot of skeptical and suspicious questioning, or comments—by women particularly..

The origin of this particular tirade is this:

We trade slights more readily in our culture than we trade compliments.

And the compliments we seem to muster are so often offered wholesale and speciously.

The other day I met a lovely woman in our Peace Corps lounge.

She had just transferred to our group, and we got onto the topic of age, and shared ours in a round. She has fantastic skin, and I mentioned it.

Before she could even process the compliment, or reply, I was derided outright, by another woman, for offering an honest compliment. As if my mentioning that this woman has great skin was, in fact, an insult if one factored in her age..

What was inappropriate about this earnest compliment? 

Was this other woman offended I didn't compliment her, instead? If so, why?
It seemed a gross overreaction.

Later at dinner, the group reconvened.

Four women who had known each other for a year’s time, and our new addition.

At one point in the dinner, a remark was directed toward me, that it was “surprising that [I] wasn't a fan of Halloween, because I must really love those slutty costumes, because [I] don’t wear a bra.”

I must be honest, it left me reeling. Because I don’t wear bras, I should enjoy overtly sexualized and demeaning Halloween costumes? Forget that my current state of dress—baggy cotton pants and an oversized sweater—covering me from ankle to wrist was antithetical to the rude implication of the comment... I tried to shake off how offensive this absurd and thoughtless remark was, and move on… So I got around to ordering..

I asked the waiter for the bar menu and he brought me back the wine list.

I ordered wine.

It wasn't in stock. I figured I’d check out the list and make another selection.

When I realized he’d brought only a wine list and not the bar menu, he’d already moved over to the next table. It was a full house and a busy night.

I figured I’d ask again on his next pass. No rush.

He comes back. I ask for the bar menu. He says he doesn't think there is one. I ask if he’s sure, and which beers do they have? He tells me there are only three beers, not enough for a list. (But fails to tell me their prices or options).

Although I have ordered from the bar menu a half dozen times, and was surprised, I didn't pursue it, because it seemed silly to argue the point. I’d just settle with wine. He’d told us at the start of the meal that he was new, and I figure he’ll find out about the half-size menus stored at the bar at some point.

I ordered another bottle of wine instead.

No big deal.

This second exchange took about thirty seconds, tops.

He left the table, and the three women I knew well jumped all over me for being rude.

For asking someone for a bar menu?

Wouldn't it have been rude to argue the point, go get the menu from the bar two rooms away and wave it in his face? Did I do anything remotely close to that? I didn't think so.

I was taken aback.

How is it that these women who were wholly nonchalant when another suggested that I must like to dress ‘slutty’ because I don’t wear bras, are so wholly offended on behalf of a stranger being asked a standard question in the course of his job?

Who else am I supposed to ask for a menu or drink prices?

The gardener?

And why is the perceived offense more important than the insult you've just dealt to a person you’re dining with? Was it because he is Namibian? Does that automatically make him someone to protect? And isn't that protectionism more than a little insulting?

I’ll admit, this soured my mood for the rest of the evening. I felt ganged up on, and then was told I was making people uncomfortable by my mentioning that I was offended by the belittling comment made toward me. What?!  What is it I’m allowed to say or talk about?

Should I talk about the music and the size of the room? The number of couples?

Peoples from so-called 'Western societies' have the strangest sense of entitlements.

This occurs to me often in the arrogant way that Americans, in particular, feel that they have the ability to embark upon any topic, without having any expertise or first-hand information, versus the trivia they've accumulated second and third-hand. Masters of bull-shit, we are..

There are also the times, too, when someone will point out cultural, or personal choices that break from social norms with derision and ignorance. Dismissive of difference. As if people should just get used to ‘the way it is’ for the greater good. Don’t disrupt the flow.

Plus we can be loud, brash, and often thoughtlessly cruel in the manner in which we speak.

Why am I considered rude for telling someone honestly and earnestly, without aggression or viciousness, that they've said something I know to be disrespectful or untrue? Why should I be treated like a caricature of myself, simply because some people find me to be ‘different?' I am not impervious to insults or slights. They hurt, and they piss me off. I have no problem asserting my right not to be taken down a few pegs simply because someone dislikes me or my choices—especially in things that affect them in no way, whatsoever…

It's too bad that it might make you less uncomfortable if I were uglier, had acne, a darker skin tone, and less long blonde hair. Or if you’d like it more if I were stupid, unintelligible, or depressed. Or for any resentment you may have for my possession of a body type that I had nothing to do with, apart from acquiring my parent’s particular combination of DNA.

I feel no need to apologize for things outside my control.

Furthermore, these are things about myself I have no desire to change.

Work on yourself. I’m doing just fine.

I once had an ex-boyfriend (in my mid-twenties) tell me that I should put on a bra because if it turned cold that night, ‘people would be able to see that I have nipples’…

See that I have nipples?

Doesn't everyone have nipples?

Why might someone knowing I possess them set off a frenzy?

Some people are just hopeless...

The above digital art illustration, 'Boobs' by UK designer Tiago Caetano, can be found here.